


are you really you, after that

by Saldemar



Category: Original Work
Genre: Dark, Vent Piece, War, i guess, idk i wrote this feeling v emotional after thinking about horrible shit for a while
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-27
Updated: 2019-03-27
Packaged: 2019-12-25 10:38:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18259589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saldemar/pseuds/Saldemar
Summary: the you who wrote in that diary is not the you who sits among the rubble of home.





	are you really you, after that

How is it that your city, your home could fall apart around you, and you could still have that book.

It is stained red, and frayed, and the cover is mangled.

It was a diary.

Once upon a time, it was a diary.

Somehow, it’s survived this catastrophe. The screaming, the blood, the fire. You can hold it in your hands, and feel the blood on its cover. It is thin. It dried quickly.

You open it, and only the edges are stained. Where you flip the pages, red fingerprints linger.

It holds a glimpse into a world you can’t go back to. A world that’s obsolete, and far, far removed from the one you’ve been vaulted into.

There is red and black, and not much else.

There is a quiet pop and sizzle, as your world falls apart. There is fire, quietly eating away at everything that’s left. In the distance, there’s rushing water. People doing their best to remediate, to cover up and repair and help what little they can.

But it doesn’t change what’s been done.

It doesn’t make the bruises go away, or heal the cuts on your legs, or bring your family back.

All you can do is hold onto that book. That book that was once a diary, but can’t be called so anymore; the person who wrote it isn’t around anymore. They were lost to the crack of a gun.

It may have been your fingers who etched every little word, every little thought onto the paper, but it is not you who fumbles with shaky hands, turning page after page, sitting amongst the rubble of what was once home. It is someone else.

Someone who was once you, but no longer is. Someone very far removed, from a world different to your reality.

It is dark, and warm, and it’s hard to see beyond the blood stained cover of your past in your hands.


End file.
